Apesar de ser Dia de S. Martinho

Tiro alguns minutos do meu muito atribulado tempo, para me lembrar que hoje é quinta feira. E porque a Vida de vez em quando devia dar-nos uns kit-kat, o poema de hoje é dedicado a todos aqueles que têm uma alma nómada, sempre inquietos por partir.

de O Dreams, O Destinations

To travel like a bird, lightly to view
Deserts where stone gods founder in the sand,
Ocean embraced in a white sleep with land;
To escape time, always to start anew.
To settle like a bird, make one devoted
Gesture of permanence upon the spray
Of shaken stars and autumns; in a bay
Beyond the crestfallen surges to have floated.
Each is our wish. Alas, the bird flies blind,
Hooded by a dark sense of destination:
Her weight on the glass calm leaves no impression,
Her home is soon a basketful of wind.
Travellers, we're fabric of the road we go;
We settle, but like feathers on time's flow.

Cecil Day-Lewis, 1904-1972